Survivor
by Star-chan3456789
Summary: America is tired. So tired. Of struggling, of enduring, of living. Everyone would be happier without him. He decides to end it all. He did not expect to survive. Tw: Attempted suicide, depression, self-harm. NO romance.
1. Not to Plan

**Trigger warning: Attempted suicide. Blood. Self-harm.**

* * *

 **Survivor**

Everything was ready. It had all been meticulously planned for a long time now, and every piece was in place.

The notes were written and in a box on his kitchen counter, each carefully scribed by hand. (He needed to explain to them that it was _him_ who was the problem and it was his own decision so they would not waste time feeling guilty.) His will was secretly updated. (Despite being nations, he had one. They all did. Just in case...) His schedule was clear, not that anyone else knew. They all believed he was in D.C., not New York, so no one would interrupt him. (No one would come for him anyway.)

All that was left was the act itself.

Suicide.

It was a dirty word. A nasty word. A hated word. It made people flinch like it was the ugliest of curses.

To America, it was not dirty, or hated, or a curse. It was a blessing. It would make all his problems end.

Suicide would give him much-needed rest. It would give him peace. No more disappointing everyone. No more cuts and scars and tears. No more living.

America was not scared. He knew it would hurt, but he had suffered worse pains in his life. (No pain could be worse than the void in his heart that sucked all his happiness out of him and ground it into dust.)

So he dressed in old clothes, (He had plenty of suits for the funeral.) took some pain killers (He would not let pain and fear stop him.), grabbed a fresh razor (He had considered using a gun but that mess would be harder to clean up.), and sat in the bathtub. (He did not want to leave too much of a mess behind. He did not want to waste any more of anyone's time.)

He laid the razor against his flesh and angled it up his arm. The mistake some people made was going across the arm instead of up it. It took longer to die that way. America was not scared but he supposed he must be a coward. (Stupid fat selfish ignorant self-absorbed asshole.) He did not want to suffer too long. (He did not want someone to find him in time. He wanted to _rest_.)

His hands were steady when he made the first slice. (Up, not across like the other scars he put there.) Red blossomed and he did not hesitate to make another cut, and another, and another. (He had to be sure it worked. He needed to rest.) He moved to the other arm (His hand trembled.) and the razor slipped. It left a jagged slice behind, curving down the side of his arm.

America bit his lip. The pain was a bit worse than he expected. The dizziness was not a surprise. He let his hands fall and the razor slipped from his fingers. It clinked on the ceramic bathtub when it fell. (White and silver streaked with red.)

America closed his eyes and waited.

It would not be long now. His people would be fine. (Based on his research, Molossia would become their personification.) No one would miss him. (Stupid selfish fat America made the world worse with his presence alone.)

Canada would be noticed. England would be happy. France would not have to pretend to like him anymore. Japan would spend time with people that deserved his friendship. Russia would win at last.

They would be happy.

(Everyone would be better off with him gone.)

The pain dulled and faded away.

(The ache in his chest eased.)

He could not feel the bathtub or his blood anymore.

(He could not feel anything anymore.)

He could finally rest.

(He could finally rest.)

* * *

He woke up in the hospital.


	2. Asking Why

America was late.

The World Meeting had started half an hour ago and Canada's brother was nowhere to be seen. He was not answering his phone either (It went right to voicemail.), making England mutter about lazy gits. Canada knew with utmost certainty that America was the furthest from being a "lazy git".

Often America worked _too_ much. Living in a country where you could get fired for taking "too many" vacation days (though that was never the official reason given, naturally.) did that to a person. Rather than confront England, Canada let it go as he always did and wondered where his brother may be.

As Germany ran out of patience and shouted for them to begin, Canada slipped out of the room. The meeting was in the United States and only a short drive from one of America's houses. He could slip away and return with his brother no problem. No one would notice he had left.

Canada got into his car and drove off. America must have slept in. It happened occasionally. America would forget to set his alarm or put in the wrong date for the meeting. He forgot such things a lot lately.

Canada knew his brother was tired and a bit stressed (America tried to hide his lack of enthusiasm and the way his steps dragged but Canada had eyes.) but he chalked it up to the season. America loved autumn but despised winter. "Too cold!" he'd whine as he shivered under a pile of blankets. On some days it would take layers of sweaters and a promise of hot cocoa to get America to emerge from his cocoon.

Canada shook his head fondly. He and America got on each other's nerves at times but he dearly loved his brother. But America had been distant lately. They both were busy. As Canada pulled his key from his pocket and unlocked the door, he resolved to ask America if he wanted to do something together. They should have some fun before winter took hold.

The door creaked open and a few red leaves flew into the entrance. Canada shut the door and removed his boots. He did not want to track dirt through the house.

"Al!" he called. "It's time to wake up. You're late for the meeting."

There was no response. His brother must still be asleep.

Canada sighed and passed through the kitchen on his way to the stairs. He paused in front of the fridge. The calendar had the meeting on next week.

"You put the wrong date again." Canada grumbled.

He headed upstairs and towards America's bedroom. Before he could reach it, he saw the bathroom light was on.

"At least you're awake." Canada said. He pushed on the bathroom door. "Didn't you hear me-"

He saw his brother in the bathtub and screamed.

* * *

 _"911. What's your emergency?"_

 _Hysterical breathing. "My brother! My brother is hurt!"_

 _"How is he injured?"_

 _"His arms- He- H-he-" Quiet sobs. "He cut his_ arms _."_

 _"I've sent an ambulance to your location. Do you know how to put pressure on the wounds?"_

 _Shakily. " Y-Yeah..."_

 _"The ambulance will arrive in one minute, sweetie. Is the door unlocked?"_

 _Firmer. "Yeah."_

 _Sirens._

 _Footsteps._

 _Steady orders, given calmly._

 _"Sir, I need you to stand back."_

 _No response._

 _"Sir, you can move your hands."_

 _He didn't move._

 _"Sir, please. We can't help him when-"_

 _A gasp._

 _Blood-covered hands lifted. New hands took their place._

 _More orders. The blood-stained coat he'd used to stem the flow was tossed aside._

 _New pressure slowed the stream of red._

 _So much red. On the tub and the razor and Canada's hands and America's arms._

 _Everything blurred and before he knew it th_ _e paramedics whisked America away. Canada stumbled after, and slumped in the back of the ambulance. As the paramedics tried to save his brother and the sirens screamed to life, one question plagued his mind._

 _Why?_

Why?

 **Why?**

* * *

England stormed out of the World Meeting in a huff. The entire day had been wasted and nothing got done, as usual. Even without America's obnoxious presence, it had been absolutely unbearable. England had been placed next to France. France, who hurried after him at this moment with a smirk on his face.

"Leaving so soon, Angleterre?"

"I'm not in the mood, frog." England snapped. "I've had enough of your inane drivel already today."

France clasped a hand to his chest. "You wound me, Angleterre. Do you not care that your words cut deep?"

England scoffed. "As if anything could get through that thick skull of yours."

France beamed. "Was that a compliment?"

England's eye twitched.

France wisely changed the subject. "Speaking of thick skulls, did you notice Amerique was absent?"

"Of course I noticed." England snapped. "Everyone noticed. The bloody idiot was supposed to host the meeting but he didn't bother to show."

"I'm sure Amerique has his reasons." France said.

England shook his head skeptically. ""Reasons?" Laziness is more like it. You should see his desk. It's covered in late paperwork. Lazy git can't be bothered to do his bloody job."

France frowned. "He has been overworked as of late. Cut the boy some slack."

"He isn't a boy." England said coldly. "He's a nation. He needs to start acting like it."

France's phone rang. He checked the number and brightened, answering. "Matthieu! How nice of you to call. I missed you at the meeting-" France 's smile vanished. "What is wrong? Matthieu, speak slower. I cannot understand you."

Before England's eyes, France's face drained of color. His blue eyes glazed with shock and his features went slack.

"We're on our way." He said, tone clipped. He hung up and put his phone away with shaking hands. "We're going to the hospital."

England gasped. "Matthew? What happened to him?"

France looked at him with fear and pity in his eyes. "Matthew is not hurt. It's Alfred. He tried to commit suicide.

And England's comfortable view of the world shattered.

* * *

Canada was covered in blood. It was on his shoes and his pants and his sleeves and hands. He sat in a creaky plastic waiting room chair and stared at it, watching his red-stained fingers twitch.

Twitch.

Twitch.

"Mister Williams?"

Canada looked up. A kindly nurse stood in front of him with blue hospital scrubs in her hands. They were pale blue, not sky blue like America's once-lively eyes.

 _How could I not see? How could I let this happen? Did America ask for help and I missed it?_

Unable to find answers, Canada distracted himself by scouring her face. He saw kindness there, and empathy. He dare not look deeper. He dare not check for sorrow or pity.

The nurse smiled kindly. "Would you like to use the washroom?"

Canada shook his head mutely.

The nurse's eyes softened. "I'll leave these here when you want to change." She said and placed the scrubs beside him.

They were blue. Not a blue like America's eyes. But Canada wished they were green, or cream, or any other color. Not red. There was so much red.

The door to the waiting room opened with a bang and France and England ran through. They spotted Canada immediately and England's skin blanched.

"Matthieu!" France embraced him, not caring about the blood on his clothes. "Are you all right?"

"I'm not hurt." Canada mumbled. "Al is." He belatedly realized the nurse had left.

France brushed a lock of hair away from Canada's face and cupped his tear-stained cheek. Canada did not remember crying. "What happened, Matthieu?"

Canada's eyes glazed. "I found him in the bathroom. He sliced his wrists." His voice cracked and his eyes burned. "Why would he do that? _Why_?"

France had no answers. "We will have to ask him when he wakes."

"If he makes it." Canada said tonelessly.

England's hands balled into fists.

The door to the emergency room opened and a doctor walked out. He spotted Canada and walked towards him.

"Matthew Williams?" He questioned.

Canada nodded numbly, unable to speak. France grasped his hand and squeezed his fingers.

The doctor smiled. "The blood transfusion was successful. Your brother pulled through. He's sleeping now and should wake soon. "

Canada could breathe again. He slumped in his chair, hand to his mouth to stifle his sobs. France rubbed his back. England glared at the wall stonily.

"When can we see him?" Canada asked once he regained some composure.

"Once he wakes up and the doctors speak with him you might be able to." the doctor said. He sat down so he was eye level with Canada. "Alfred hurt himself badly. He is going to need a lot of help in the near future."

"I'll be there for him." Canada said immediately.

"I trust you will." the doctor said. "But Alfred is in a very delicate place. There is a time for questions, but the time he wakes up is _not_ it."

Canada's stomach twisted. "I understand." he whispered. He hesitated. "Can we wait in the room with him?"

The doctor scrutinized them (his eyes lingered on England) before shaking his head. "I do not think that is a good idea."

Canada flinched.

England's eyes narrowed.

The doctor raised a hand. "It may be better for all of you if you wait until he is awake."

Canada wanted to protest. Instead he nodded and accepted the doctor's advice. "Okay."

France put a hand on England's arm to keep him quiet. The doctor nodded and hurried to his next patient. Canada sat in the hard chair, and England and France sat at his sides.

For now, all they could do was wait.

* * *

America's nose itched. He tried to reach up and scratch it but his arm would not move. He frowned and wondered how someone encased his arms in cement while he slept. He tried to move them again and noted it was not cement. The substance had some give. It also hurt a bit.

A weight fell on his chest and crushed his heart into shards.

Hurt meant pain.

Pain meant life.

He was _still_ _alive_.

America opened his eyes just to be sure. The white walls of a hospital greeted him. A doctor stood in the corner, looking at a clipboard.

America shut eyes that prickled with tears. He was in the hospital. Someone found him.

He had survived.

This wasn't supposed to happen. He was meant to die and that would be the end. He was not meant to be found too early and saved. He was meant to found too late and buried.

The doctor saw America was awake and hurried over. "Hello, Alfred." He said in the quiet tone people used around sick people. "My name is Doctor Greene. You're in the hospital."

America did not respond. He kept his gaze on the kitten poster on the wall that proclaimed "Hang in there!" It was strange. Why would they have a picture of a kitten in a noose? He blinked a realized the kitten was hanging by its paws on a tree branch.

"Do you remember what happened?" the doctor asked.

America's chest heaved as he took a shuddering breath. He remained silent. He kept his sight on the kitten.

"Alfred, could you look at me?" the doctor requested.

America forced himself to comply. The doctor's eyes were very green, just like England's. America dropped his gaze to his bandaged wrists. He couldn't swallow the lump in his throat.

"We are going to help you, Alfred." the doctor said.

Another shudder passed through America's body. No, no, _no_. This couldn't be happening. He was supposed to die so no one would waste their time with him anymore. Instead the doctor (and whoever found America) would try to _fix_ him. They'd sort through the broken pieces and try to make them into a person again.

Shame rushed through America at the thought. He was such a selfish, attention-seeking git. Everyone else would be forced to deal with him because he couldn't even kill himself right. He couldn't do anything right.

"Who knows?" America didn't recognize his own voice. He should. It was quiet, broken, and weak just like him.

The doctor paused before answering. "You brothers Matthew and Arthur, and your friend Francis."

"Mattie found me?" America whispered because of course Canada did.

"Yes." the doctor confirmed.

America wished the shame could kill him. Of course it was Canada. His brother was kind and gentle and wonderful (unlike America) and he always checked on America even though his self-centered jerk of a brother did not deserve it. Canada would not let him die, even when he should.

"He was supposed to be in Toronto." America whispered.

The doctor shook his head. "You missed a meeting today. Your brother came to check on you."

America bit back a sob. Now he remembered. He put the meeting on the wrong day and so his entire schedule was skewed. Canada was not in Toronto. England was not in London. France was not in Paris. They were in New York for the World Meeting that was a short drive from America's home. He screwed up (he survived) because of a mistaken _date_.

The doctor eyed him over his clipboard with his bright green England-colored eyes. "Do you want to see them?"

America shook his head. "Leave me alone, please." he begged shakily.

"I can't do that, Alfred." the doctor said.

America returned to muteness. He had nothing else to say. He tugged hopelessly at the restraints around his wrists, barely feeling the slight pain in his wrists. They refused to yield and he laid his head on his pillow. Red-hot tears streamed down his temples and he ignored the doctor's questions on whether he was all right.

He was not all right.

He was supposed to be dead.

 _Why did I have to survive?_


	3. Caring

"He isn't ready for visitors at the moment." the doctor told them.

For England, the desire to scream at the doctor was strong. After he said America was awake, England, France, and Canada had stood in silence, mentally preparing themselves for the coming conversation, only for the doctor to deny them entry to America's room.

England nearly choked on his anger as he swallowed it. "You said we could see him."

"I said you _might_ be able to see him." the doctor corrected.

"Why can't we?" Canada asked softly. He was more polite than what England was capable of at the moment.

"Alfred does not wish to see you." the doctor said.

"Alfred tried to bloody off himself." England snapped. "I'd say his judgement is compromised."

"Alfred does not wish to see you and we will respect his wishes at this time." the doctor repeated sternly.

England saw red. "Listen here, you pompous-"

France put a hand on his shoulder, stopping the potential bloodbath. "Could you excuse us for a moment, doctor?"

The doctor nodded. Canada asked him a question as France steered England down the hall. He stopped and put his other hand on England's shoulder.

"The doctor knows what he is doing, Arthur."

"He's keeping us from Alfred." England hissed.

"Yes." France agreed. "Have you asked yourself why?"

"I bloody _know_ why." England snapped. "It's because Alfred is being a stupid _git_."

France shook his head. "It's because you are angry." he said. "If you go into that room as you are and yell at Alfred, you may cause more harm than good."

His words snuffed out England's fiery anger and his shoulders slumped. "Then what am I supposed to _do_?" He croaked. "He tried to commit _suicide_ , Francis."

"I do not have the answers, mon ami." France said with haunted eyes. He shook himself and planted on a smile. "But let us do our best to be compassionate, oui?"

"...Fine." England agreed reluctantly.

They returned to the doctor and Canada in time to catch the tail end of their conversation.

"It depends on his reasons and how he responds once the shock has worn off. Many failed attempts have the person feel horrified and wish to recover. It is too early to tell whether an extended psychiatric stay is necessary." the doctor was saying.

"Thank you for being honest." Canada said. Even in times like this he was polite. England appreciated that snippet of normalcy now more than ever.

"You're welcome. I've learned being blunt is more practical than sugarcoating in these situations." The doctor noticed England and France's return. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes." England and cleared his throat. "I apologize for my uncouth reaction."

"It is understandable. And I have been called worse." the doctor said.

Canada stifled a yawn.

The doctor noticed. "Perhaps you should go home for the night."

"No." England growled.

To the doctor's credit, he did not argue. "Very well. I'll have a nurse direct you to a room."

* * *

There was a bottle of chemicals on the nurse's cart.

America read about people who survived suicide attempts. It was mostly out of morbid fascination (and a final effort to stop himself. It obviously did not work.) The articles said many people regretted the attempt and were glad to be alive.

America was not one of them.

There was a bottle of chemicals on the nurse's cart. It had a bright warning symbol on the side.

He did not regret the attempt. He regretted surviving it. It wasn't fair. He willingly threw his life away and lived while so many good people who wanted life lost theirs.

 _Why did I survive?_

There was a bottle of chemicals on the nurse's cart. It had a bright warning symbol on the side. A list of warnings was written in bold letters.

The nurse talked to him as she cleaned some equipment. He did not respond and hardly heard her. He did not know her name, though she must have given it to him. (Stupid oblivious selfish fat America didn't care about anything except himself.)

There was a bottle of chemicals on the cart. It had a bright warning symbol on the side. A list of warnings was written in bold letters. One of the warnings said consumption could result in death.

America's arms hurt. The doctor had said to press the call button if the morphine wore off and he felt pain. America did not listen. He deserved this pain. He _deserved_ it.

Why did he live?

Why did he have to keep breathing while better people died?

There was a bottle of chemicals on the cart. It had a bright warning symbol on the side. A list of warnings was written in bold letters. One of the warnings said consumption could result in death. He was bound to the hospital bed and could not reach it but maybe-

The nurse saw him looking at the chemicals. She took the bottle with her when she left.

America shut his eyes and cried himself to sleep.

* * *

When he woke up, he was not alone. listen

America kept his eyes open only long enough to be sure Canada was sitting at his bedside before shutting his eyes again. Canada was more perceptive than him (smarter, kinder, better; people would miss him if he died) and saw through his feeble attempt.

"Alfred."

This was why America wished he had succeeded. This was why he could not afford to survive. Because he lived, he was the source of the pain in his brother's voice. He hurt Canada by living, just like he always did.

"Alfred." Canada said tremulously. "Please look at me."

America selfishly kept his eyes closed.

Canada sniffled. The plastic chair creaked as he rose from it and America hoped he was leaving. Did Canada realize America did not deserve his tears? America did this to himself. He was a good for nothing asshole who screwed everything up and made everyone miserable (He couldn't even die right.) Had Canada realized that yet? America hoped so. His brother deserved to be free of his toxic presence.

Arms wrapped around America (gentle and soft, careful not to touch his bound arms). Canada's country could be cold but his embrace was warm. For a moment America let himself be selfish (he was always selfish) and relax in his embrace.

"I'm so happy you're alive." Canada hicupped. His voice was choked with tears.

America could not bear to look at him. He knew Canada would be upset after his suicide (America was a piece of shit but he knew his brother cared, even though America was unworthy and he shouldn't.) but his brother would grieve and move on. (Everyone would.) That was what was meant to happen.

Instead America screwed up again and was dragging out his brother's pain.

So America could not look at Canada. His brother patted his hair like England used to when he was a colony. England would never forgive him for this. He could already hear the insults and screaming. America did not need England to tell him he was a worthless, lazy, fat git. America knew.

"You don't have to talk if you don't want to." Canada said. " Just know I'm here for you."

 _You shouldn't be._

"Arthur and Francis are here too." Canada continued. "Do you want them to come in?"

America shook his head. He considered his bandaged wrists. If he thrashed hard enough would the wounds reopen? He'd have to wait for Canada to leave before trying. He was a terrible, selfish person, but he did not want Canada to see him die.

 _He already almost did you pathetic, stupid, hypocritical, selfish piece of-_

Canada did not leave to tell England and France about America's cowardice. Instead he returned to his seat and held America's pale hand.

"Did I tell you what Kumagigi did the other day?" Canada said shakily. "He climbed into the refrigerator and got stuck." Canada's laugh was miserably weak. "You'd think I never feed for all the times he goes searching for food..."

His voice faded into background noise and allowed America to pretend his brother was not there (Why was Canada wasting his time here? Why couldn't he see America wasn't worth it? Why why why?)

As an extra precaution, America kept his eyes shut.


	4. Pieces of the Past

**Trigger Warnings: Cutting. Allusions to attempted rape. Nothing graphic or descriptive.**

* * *

 _The Past_

America did not wake up one day and decide he was going to kill himself. He could not pinpoint the exact day "Why bother getting out of bed?" became "Why bother living?" but he supposed it must have happened sometime in the past decade.

There was no specific trigger that pushed him into a depression as far as he could recall. No one insulted him one too many times. He did not suffer a traumatic event. He did not lose a loved one or pet.

One day he simply woke up and it was harder to get out of bed. He did it anyway (He had work to do) but the rest of the day was a haze of staring at his desk and accomplishing nothing. It was like a steel ceiling had been built over him while he slept, leaving him unable to complete the simplest of tasks.

The next day he did not bother showering. He would only get dirty again (so why bother?).

A few days later he began skipping meals or forgetting to eat. He would only get hungry again (so why bother?).

He showered even less (why bother?).

It was harder and harder to get out of bed (why bother?).

He lost interest in his favorite hobbies; video games gave no satisfaction, hanging out with friends was too much effort, hamburgers tasted like ashes (why bother?)

Sometimes he gave in to the exhaustion that emanated from his every cell and skip work (why why why why why?).

He would always get an earful from his boss about that. He would lie and say "Sorry, I was sick." but after a while his boss's patience wore out and he'd scream more about his nation's laziness.

That might be the time when the whispers in America's head became shouts.

 _Worthless._

 _Stupid._

 _Fat._

 _Ignorant._

 _Lazy._

 _Arrogant._

 _Selfish._

Sometimes people called him those things. Mostly it was his fellow nations. But truthfully a majority of those insults came from America's own thoughts.

He did not understand what had changed. He had heard those insults thousands of times before and brushed them off. Why did they hurt now? Why did they dig their claws into his thoughts and never truly leave?

Maybe it was because he now knew they were true. He was lazy and selfish and worthless, because only a lazy, selfish, and worthless person could barley muster the energy to get out of bed.

He sat at his desk and accomplished nothing, sitting on paperwork others needed to do their own jobs. Sometimes he fell asleep there, only to be woken by a rough shake or a smack to the back of his head.

If he was not a personification he would have been fired. Regardless of his status his boss was more than ready to kick him out, consequences be damned.

America knew if he lost his job, he would lose his house as well. The thought of trying to find a new place to work was unbearable. Imagining having to crawl to Canada or England's house and beg them for a place to stay was even worse.

So America forced himself out of bed. He forced himself to shower. He carefully went over every bit of paperwork until it was finished. Every action drained the energy from his soul, leaving a gurgling void behind that fed off of every remaining bit of energy he had.

His boss was pleased. America was tired, cold, and empty. But he repeated the process over and over every day. It got to the point where his body was on autopilot. He was a robot (a lifeless husk), just going through the motions.

One day, his boss sent him home. America could barely breathe (and hold the tears back) as he thought he'd been fired, but his boss said he looked sick. He sent America home to rest, saying he could come back in tomorrow.

When America got home he looked in the mirror at his bloodshot eyes. He looked at his ashen skin. He looked at the misery that haunted him like a ghost.

He realized how little control he had over... anything.

His body was constantly exhausted. His mind alternated between wondering why he bothered to do anything (Why shower? Why eat? Why get up at all?) and hissing facts his way (Oh, you're miserable with your life? How spoiled can you be? Others don't have food, or a house, or a family, or a place to sleep, you ungrateful _ass_.) His boss could fire him at any moment (Even he knows how worthless you are).

America took a clean razor out of his cabinet and sliced his wrist. He watched the blood well up and screamed, throwing the razor away. It clattered in the sink and he fumbled with the first aid kit, wrapping the wound in gauze.

"What am I _doing_?" He whispered.

He resolved not to hurt himself again.

At work, he claimed he had walked into the sharp edge of a broken chair.

His coworkers believed him. Life went on.

His resolve lasted a week.

His boss pushed up the deadline for a report. America failed to meet it. His boss screamed at him for hours and he spent hours more trying to finish the thing. He went home late, exhausted and overwhelmed.

He took a razor out of his cabinet and cut his wrist. There was no panic or remorse this time. Instead his numb mind cleared and he _felt_. What he felt was pain but it calmed him. He caused the pain. He was in control of it. This was _his_ body and could do what he wanted with it. A bit of his problems drained with his blood.

For a time that was enough. Whenever the numbness and exhaustion became too much he cut, and it was almost like he was fixed. The tiny bit of control he had was enough to keep his head above water. Just in time for the biannual World Meeting he could fake smiles again.

But the steel ceiling between him and healthiness was still there. His "fix" was only temporary.

And the only way left to go was down.

* * *

Cutting (comfort, pain, release, _control_ ) helped him fill in the gaping holes enough to pretend. He smiled stupidly (as he withered into ashes inside). He laughed obnoxiously (when he wanted to cry). He took their insults in stride (when he wished to scream at them he _already knew_ he was stupid, selfish, pathetic—) He ate junk food (that someone who deserved food more should be eating). He was normal (as far as they could see. Because why look deeper? America was stupid. There was nothing of worth in him.)

Yet his mask was not perfect, and someone noticed.

France caught him after one of the World Meetings. He slung his arm across America's shoulder, not seeming to notice he had lost weight, and mentioned he looked stressed. _Stressed_. Was that the aura America gave off? He supposed it was better than showing the hollow shell he had become. France needled him for a bit, asking if he had enough time to eat and sleep, and got a gleam in his eye that made America wary.

"You should, as they say "get laid" to relax." France offered with a wink.

America swallowed a gag and thanked his lucky stars when France did not offer to be his partner. He was not prudish or particularly against the idea of hooking up, but he never understood some people's willingness to sleep with other people, particularly strangers. He had little libido by default and had come to suspect he was either ace or demisexual, where he only experienced attraction to certain people he was very close to. (Though now that deviance from the supposed "norm" was just another sign he must be broken).

No one knew he was not interested in sex (it was "unmanly" or a "sign of a damaged soul" in the eyes of too many nations because to them, sex equaled pleasure and life). France (who may be the most accepting or least accepting of them all) certainly did not know. So America smiled, politely excused himself, and left.

Despite his better judgment, America decided to try France's advice. So many people said sleeping with someone made them happy, so he might as well try (to fill the void).

He went out alone with a fake ID that claimed he was twenty-one. He got drunk (because deep down he knew he could not do this sober) and chatted with strangers (smiled painted on). He stumbled into dirty motel rooms with random people. But he never got more than a couple kisses and his shirt off before his stomach would twist and he would stop. As drunk as both of them usually were (him more than them. Dull the pain in blissful hazes) his rejected partners respected his decision, either staying to chat or leaving (some left more angrily than others. He almost called them back in but he did not want it _he did not_ —).

One time (the last time), America was rather lightheaded, confused, and dizzy as a man pulled him into a dingy hotel room. It was strange; he did not drink that much that night. Only two glasses, one of which he turned away from when a brown-haired man asked him for directions. But through the haze, he had enough awareness to know _he did not want this_ when the man shoved him down and undid his pants.

America stopped him from pulling them down (he gripped his waistband with desperate, white-knuckled fingers, crossing his legs) and said _no_. The particularly drunk and aggressive man decided he did not need to listen to him. He decided his desires were more important than America's choice. So he ignored America's mumbled, slurred pleas to stop and kissed him painfully as he called his friend in. They forced him onto his stomach and held him down as the first man continued to kiss him and their hands roamed.

For a moment, America was too terrified to act. Then he bit the man's tongue, broke his nose, and snapped his friend's groping fingers before they could grasp his bare hips. He left the howling, bloody men in the dingy hotel room, went home, showered, and cried himself to sleep.

The next morning he woke with a pounding headache and the chilling realization he had been drugged and nearly _r_ —

He was nearly—

He nearly slept with someone he did not want to. (It wasn't _that word_ because he was a superpower and there was no way that could happen to him. If it did happen to him, it must be because he wanted it deep down because he could fight them off any time so he _must_ have wanted it it was his fault all his fault all his—) He realized how lucky he had been that he was strong enough to fight back. He remembered how scared he'd been when the men grabbed him.

He called in sick to work. He did not call the police (no names, blurred faces, no evidence, no one could know). He struggled not to call Canada, because his did not want to bother his brother with something so minor (stupid, reckless, it was _his_ fault) like this. He cried alone in his bed the whole day, except when he got up to shower again. And again. And again.

The bruises faded in hours. The nightmares haunted him for months. In them, his family watched apathetically from the sidelines and asked him why he didn't try harder as the men's groping hands dragged him into the depths to drown.

He never tried France's advice again.

* * *

 _The Present_

Canada would not leave. He had run out of stories hours ago so he and America sat in suffocating silence; one brother submerged in uncertainty while the other drowned in numbness.

America knew what Canada wanted. He knew what words hos brother waited for with (fear) bated breath.

The answer.

The story.

The reasons why.

America was selfish and petty and (broken) cruel, so he had no desire to tell.

So he kept his silence and secretly wished it could suffocate him.

* * *

 **A/N:** I know attempted sexual assault is another fanfiction cliché, but the scene is not there for shock value. It's not a one and done twist. It will have effects on the story and characters and how things happen. With that being said, that means that there will be more mentions of attempted sexual assault later on (absolutely nothing graphic) so if you are do not want to read that, this story might not be for you. The scene was going to be revealed later but I decided to move it up so those of you who don't want to continue reading won't have to spend more time with this story.


	5. Skewed Priorities

England stood outside the hospital doors and paced back and forth. He took his phone out of his pocket and returned the device to his coat without using it. Again, he paced. Again, he took out his phone. Again, it returned to his pocket, unused. He grimaced and took out his phone, steeling himself. He was England, the former British Empire. A simple phone call was easy for him. Truthfully, it was not the phone call that bothered him. It was the context for it. He could not afford to let his boss know anything was amiss. Because if he let slip what was going on (what he was feeling)...

A personification's attempted suicide was not something that his boss could keep to herself. She would tell America's boss.

England could not do that to America. He could not be the reason why America's boss found out. (Not when he might already be the reason why his little brother tried to kill himself.)

England scrolled through his contacts and pressed the call button. The phone rang two times before his boss answered. England cleared his throat.

"Hello, Your Majesty. Yes, I received your calls. I apologize for not answering. Yes, I know I missed my plane back home. Something... came up." His throat was dry. He could not clear it. But his voice was _calm_. And that was what mattered. "Just a minor emergency. America got himself into an accident again. Nothing to worry about. Just another stupid stunt of his. You know how foolish that git can be. Regardless, I'd like to remain in the States for a few weeks to make sure he does not jump off a cliff..." He realized what he had just said and struggled to keep his composure. "If you do not mind, could you have Mindy send me my paperwork? I can complete it here. Thank you kindly, ma'am. Goodbye."

England hung up and returned his phone to his pocket.

Then he crouched by the hospital door and put his head in his hands, not caring who saw him.

* * *

Hours later, America's wrists still stung. The doctor came in and noticed in an instant. He may be chiding America for not asking for more morphine but the nation was not sure. His voice was a buzz in the back of his brain. Everything was dull and distant except the sting of pain. That was good. He deserved it. The doctor did not understand that so he added morphine to the IV. America's mind remained mostly clear, but he could not tear his gaze away from the drug dripping into his veins.

The doctor (what was his name?) got straight to business. "Alfred, I need to ask you a couple questions. Do you want Matthew to leave?"

Alfred watched the clock count seconds on the wall. Tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock.

"Alfred? Do you want your brother to step out of the room?"

America shook his head.

"Okay." the doctor said.

He sat in the empty chair next to Canada. America knew why he did it: So he did not loom over his patient. It was just a tactic to make himself seem friendly and approachable. America saw through it. This man wanted to pick apart his brain and reveal everything that was wrong with him. It was meant to help him. America understood that. Truly, he did. But the truth would only hurt, even though this was no one's fault but his own.

 _That's why I was supposed to die. Now everyone's going to suffer because I screwed up._

America's vision blurred with tears and he hastily turned his head away, unable to wipe them from his eyes.

"Are you still in pain?" the doctor asked gently.

America instinctively shook his head before he realized he should have used that excuse. It was too late to change his answer. He scrambled for a new one, desperate to hide his true thoughts, because as long as he could lie, no one would be hurt.

"What's wrong, Al?" Canada begged him, and America's organs felt like they were being sucked into a void.

He looked at the private hospital room, at the doctor sitting at his bedside, and the tears flowed faster. "I-I _can't pay for this_." he hiccuped.

Canada's confusion soon became comprehension and America nearly gagged on the lie. But he had to lie. He could not tell them the truth. He could not drag them down with him. Canada hugged him carefully and made soothing noises, rocking him as much as his bound arms would allow. (Selfless, wonderful, gullible Mattie. Why couldn't he see what a manipulative freak America was?)

"Al, it's okay. You don't have to worry about medical bills right now."

Rather than comfort him, the words let memories come, and America's fake excuse for crying suddenly became very _real_. "I'm going to lose my insurance. I'm a high death risk so they won't pay for it." He pulled at his restraints and could not take in enough air. " _Please_ , let me go home. I don't have the money for this."

Numbers ran through his head against his will. He had perused his health insurance policy carefully during his research period before the attempt. He had wanted to be sure that his family would not be stuck paying any of his bills after he died. Even though he was a personification, his policy was not any better than the average citizen's. Usually their kind healed up pretty quickly so it did not matter, but he...

 _("Wait." America said slowly. "Let me get this straight. Your first reaction when facing capture was to commit sup-achoo?"_

 _"Seppuku." Japan corrected._

 _America forced himself to smile, hiding his guilt at the stupid mistake. Japan was his best friend but the self-centered American could not bother to remember anything about him. Typical stupid America. "Right. That. But wouldn't you just heal from that?"_

 _Japan thought about it and shook his head. "Not necessarily. We are not absolutely immortal, as ancient nations like Rome clearly show. We can fall if our nation does, but also if we truly wish to die. It is rare, but it has happened."_

 _"Huh. Interesting." America murmured. He kept on smiling. "So what's that new game you wanted to show me?")_

...America did not heal like he should have (because he did not want to.)

He wondered if Canada knew. He could almost laugh at his absurdity. Of course Canada knew. It was as obvious as the bandages on his arms. Canada was still talking to him. Had he been talking this whole time? America did not know.

He did know that the ambulance ride could cost six hundred dollars at the very _least_ , depending on whether it was a volunteer service or not. Add in the life-saving care they had to give him, the distance between his house and the hospital, and the fact that the ride might not count as as a medical necessity since it was an attempted suicide (meaning insurance would not give him a penny to pay for it), and he might be stuck with a bill of _over ten thousand dollars_ just from the ambulance ride alone. Add in the hospital stay and the amount kept on climbing.

A funeral cost around seven thousand dollars on average. There would be a funeral service, he would have been put in the ground and that's it. Dying was cheaper than living and because he screwed up he was financially worse off now more than ever. Had the hospital already started charging him for their services?

"I need to go home." he begged, pulling weakly at his restraints. "I can't— I _can't_ pay for this. Please, I need to go _home!_ "

"Alfred." Canada grasped his hands (his hands were so warm while America's were icy cold) and sounded dangerously close to tears. (America was hurting him again. Why was he so cruel to his brother? He didn't mean to be but everything he did was awful and wrong.) "You _don't_ have to worry about this now. Even if you're charged fees I'll help you pay for it, okay?"

America stopped struggling and let his limbs go limp. Canada's words were the last thing he wanted to hear. The point of it all (suicide) was to _stop_ burdening everyone. He would go in the ground, and it (his misery, his exhaustion, his selfishness, his life) would be over. Instead he continued to waste (their money, their time, their friendship, their love, their lives—)

"I'm sorry." he whispered.

Canada's pained expression eased and he stroked America's hair. "Hey, don't apologize. It's understandable that you're overwhelmed."

America realized Canada had misunderstood his apology. The relief was almost enough to stamp out the guilt. Almost. He glanced at the doctor but was too tired to feel embarrassed for crying in front of the man. The doctor was smiling gently but America knew it was only because he was being professional. He did not actually care about America. He only cared about not losing a patient and getting a red mark on his record. Once he realized America could not pay the bills, he would kick him out. Maybe it was better that happened sooner rather than later.

"Matthew is right. You don't need to worry about any expenses." the doctor lied.

America knew he was lying because he had read his health insurance policies. He had researched countless articles about how insurance agencies disliked spending money on people who were probably going to die anyway (they _hated_ spending money on people who would kill themselves given the chance). He also saw news reports on times people were kicked out of their hospital rooms because they could not afford to stay.

America wished he could stop crying but he couldn't. Why did he let this happen? Why couldn't he just suck it up and pretend things were okay? (Why did he have to keep hurting them?)

Canada continued to pet his hair and leaned in close. "Alfred, if you're really worried about it, we can go to Canada, okay?"

Free health care. That was right. Canada's health policies were so much better than America's. Everything about Canada was better. His health policies, his social reforms, even his people (who were not hated around the world just because they were born in the land of the fat and hypocritical.) America really did not understand why the nations paid attention to him and not Canada. Canada deserved better than to live in America's shadow (than to be forced to care for his worthless brother.)

If the doctor was annoyed that his pay check might be transferred, he did not show it. He was very professional. America knew better than to trust him for more than that. "I know this is difficult, but I do need to ask you these questions, Alfred." he said, possibly proving America's point. "It will help us move forward."

"It will help us decide if you need to be sent to a psych ward." America heard. He shrugged noncommittally.

The doctor took that as an affirmative. "When did you first have suicidal thoughts?"

America flinched.


End file.
